Confessions of an Ex-Death-Eater

12.

After the incident with Rowle, I refused to leave my mother's rooms. I made the decision that while I was home, I would sleep on the daybed in her dressing room and I had a house elf move my belongings in. We sat quietly together for the rest of the afternoon, looking out over the manor's formal gardens from a window seat as we drank tea together. The sun was shining and the roses were in full and brightly-coloured bloom and I remember commenting on how they lied, how they hid the truth behind their beauty, how just beneath the surface were sharp thorns that would leech the blood from your body, if they could.

My mother said, 'I should have left him, after that first time he raised his cane against you. I should have left him then and protected you from all this.'

But it was too late for such remorse and there was nothing to be done.

That evening a man came to the door. He was a short, whiskery sort of toady man who twitched his nose as he spoke. He rubbed his hands together a lot despite one of them being metal. I didn't trust him. And I didn't like the way he looked at my mother.

It was easy to sneer at him.

Even easier when I learnt he was Peter Pettigrew, or Wormtail, the man who had betrayed Harry's parents.

He threw me a long black robe from the doorway, not daring to cross the threshold. He said the Master had commanded that I wore it. That I may wear my underpants under it but nothing else.

As I shed my school uniform and pulled on the loose robe, I felt desperately cold despite the July heat.

My mother hugged me, unable to bear letting go and somehow it made things worse. It created an awful anticipation of what was about to occur. She wasn't allowed to attend so I made her lock her bedroom door while I was absent and unable to protect her.

Wormtail led me downstairs to the ballroom where there was an empty tall-backed chair stood in the middle. It was one of our dining room chairs, I realised, the carver chair which my father normally sat in. The room seemed darker than usual, lit only by wall sconces which cast a flickering orange light between long eerie shadows. Death-eaters stood like statues in a large circle around it, their robes to the floor, silver masks hiding their faces. They looked anonymous and fearsome in their stillness. There were thirteen gaps in the circle, obviously places where the twelve Death-eaters in Azkaban were normally stood and I took a modicum in pleasure in imagining the thirteenth space was Rowle's who had not been able to stand after my mother had finished damaging him with her boot.

My heart thumped wildly as Wormtail led me to the chair, his gasping hand on my arm, his nails digging into my clammy flesh as he twisted me around without sympathy and pushed me back into the wooden chair.

As I sit here writing, my palms sweat and my breath is heaving in much the same way it was then. I have tried not to think too much about that night. Back then, I was panicked because I feared what I didn't know was coming next. Now, I am in fear of what I must re-live.

Voldemort walked into the centre of the room and Nagini slithered behind. His bare feet were silent against the wooden floor, he appeared to glide as he came towards me. He stopped in front of me, studying me for some time and I felt like his prey, unable to move, frozen in terror. He ran a sharp-nailed finger down my face, following the track from a bead of sweat. He summoned forward Wormtail, who took hold of my left hand, pushed back the sleeve and twisted so my exposed forearm was facing upwards as he pinned it to the arm of the chair with a pinching grip. Voldemort smiled cruelly as he raised his wand and cast an 'Incarcerous' charm. Thin black ropes leapt from his wand tip, snaking their way around my wrists and ankles and binding me tightly to the chair and cutting into my skin so I would not be able to flinch away from what came next.

Then Wormtail placed a smooth wooden bar in my mouth, securing it behind my head. 'So, you won't bite through your tongue,' he hissed nastily into my ear as another black rope slithered around my neck, securing me utterly to the chair. He retreated to the outer edges of the circle, not deigned the right calibre of man to join the ceremony beyond the position of servant.

Voldemort began to pace slowly around my chair, chanting quietly. I cannot tell you what spell he used, mostly because I didn't understand the words he used, but also, I didn't want to, I did not want to hear his voice hissing out those fearful words.

I tried to focus on what I could see. The Death-eaters in front of me were indistinguishable because of their masks and their unbending positions. However, I was able to recognise Bellatrix's stature. I noticed that her hands repeatedly flexed in excitement and I stared at her, turning my terror into hatred, for here she was, stood opposite me, taking pleasure in my fear and pain. Next to her stood my Godfather. I would recognise his swarthy hands anywhere after studying potions under him for so many years. In contrast to Bellatrix, his fists were clenched tight, the knuckles white, long tendons protruding along the backs of his slender hands. That offered me some sense of resignation, for I knew then that he had no more choice in this than I did and he did not think it was right.

Voldemort eventually stopped his slow pacing around my chair and stopped in front of me. He shrugged back the sleeve of his robe to reveal his own Dark Mark which he touched with the tip of his wand, throwing back his head in almost sexual delight. He sighed deeply and then snapped his head back to look at me with his awful glaring eyes, before placing the tip of his wand upon my forearm.

Reader, the Dark Mark is not a tattoo, that is too easy an explanation. It is a mark of torture, it is a branding, it is death that occurs from inside and shows itself on the surface. Voldemort never moved the tip of his wand from my skin, instead the mark spread out slowly from its central position, slow swirling black marks under my skin which, at first, seemed innocuous and fascinating. Oh, how lulled into a false sense of security was I?  The marks suddenly seemed to pulse and then it was as if Voldemort was carving his mark into my flesh from under the surface, but more than that, my flesh was being scorched and burnt black. I could not move to avoid or find release from the slow and painful torture which crept through my arm. I could only focus on that animated flexing of Bellatrix's hands, the only other movement in the room.

Never, ever, have I suffered such pain in my life.

Unnoticed by me, Wormtail had scuttled forward and held my head upright by fisting my hair painfully in his metal hand. I was forced to hold eye contact with Voldemort and I knew he was testing me, seeing what I could endure.

Determined I would not shed a single tear in front of this monster, I bit down hard on the wooden bar in my mouth and I lodged the screams in my bound throat, willing that I would never release them until the ordeal was over and I was safely hidden away with my mother.

It was a battle of wills and I underwent it with hatred in my heart for the evil fiend who was doing this to me.

I swear the room breathed a sigh of relief when Voldemort eventually took his wand away from my arm.

And although my pounding arm still felt as if it were on fire, at least the cutting pain had gone.

Voldemort was staring at me, I could not tell what it meant, but eventually he reached out and his gnarled finger pressed down hard against the Mark on my arm and I winced as the Mark pulsated and sent a fresh wave of pain through my body.

'Now your father knows, even in Azkaban, that I have branded you with my Mark and you are mine,' he hissed in pleasure before turning and sweeping out of the room, Nagini and Wormtail trailing in his wake.

The bonds fell away as the Death-eaters Disapparated out of the manor, leaving me alone in the enormous ballroom. I passed out. I could not tolerate the pain any longer, no matter how much I tried.

*****